Strength In The Love Of A Brother
by Akiko Keeper of Sheep
Summary: 'Michael drew in a shuddering breath, crimson eyes glowing eerily in the gloom as he focused them on her, his slit-like pupils blown wide, and she knew he could see her clear as day. "Lucy, the only way to fix this is to kill me."' -Second in Strengthverse. WARNING: there is gore and there is angst. Not for the weak of heart or stomach.
1. Prologue: Awake Again

Prologue: Awake Again

_ Terror. Rage. Determination. More terror._

_ The iron poker is cold and hard against his palm, and fury burns hot in his veins as he swings as hard as he can. For a moment, everything it tinted red, and then there is the jarring impact, the small thrill of satisfaction at the arcing spray of blood and torn flesh. Something in his chest eases, even as he recoils from himself in horror._

_ Frightened eyes glitter at him in the darkness, but all he feels is anger and fear, anger and fear. He feels his fist tightening around the poker, and for the span of a breath, he's not sure he shouldn't be more afraid of himself._

_ Then the world explodes around him, crushing him, and he can't breathe again. This time, fear is only part of the reason, and he scrabbles at the sand, fighting as he's pressed down and down._

_ The there is pain. It flashes through him in jagged spikes of crimson lightning, bursting from the wet slice and dull crunch at his shoulder. The stench of blood and rot fills his nose and mouth and he is drowning in it, drowning in screams and salty-copper, and the red retreats from his vision except for one bright, ugly pinpoint. It stares at him, unblinking, until finally, finally, blackness blankets his mind._

_ He falls away. He falls for a very long time, too long. He feels them flitting over him like stones, skipping on the surface as he drifts underneath, mossy green and vibrant violet and electric yellow. They touch him, especially the green one, whose verdant tendrils coil deep and gather bits of him away and knit other bits of him up._

_ He can feel himself floating upwards, and the closer he comes to the surface, the more it gnaws at him. It all seeps back in steadily, diluted only by the atmosphere he's been suspended in._

_ Fear. Anger. __**Hunger**__._

_ It claws at him. It's not the ache of emptiness, nor the frailty of utter starvation, a passive thing to be overcome or to be overcome by. It's an active hunger, with teeth and claws that grip his belly tight, tearing it open and letting all that might fill it spill out. It crawls up his throat like a howl, scratches at his eyes and ears and into his skull. It gnaws and pierces, pinpricks all over, and itch in his spinal cord that wriggles up and down relentlessly._

_ It isn't merely hunger. It is madness. It is __**famine**__._

_ It sinks its slimy-dry-cold fingers into him, and his soul is crying and laughing and screaming as it is torn and consumed piece by bitter piece. It tugs him towards the surface, relentless and giggling. Suddenly, he does not want to go, but it gives him no choice._

_ There is a pounding, a discordant drumline surrounding him, and a river rushing in his ears. His eyes are wide and wild, and everything seems to vibrate around him, tingling up his fingertips and making his breath come in short, sharp gasps._

_ It fills his lungs, rolls over his tongue like honey, but infinitely sweeter - a taste beyond any other taste, and he craves, oh, he craves._

_ The drums beat in his brain, thrumming with life, and he craves._

_ And there is one, alone and cut off, and he can smell that glorious smell wafting in on the night air. All else smells of ash, but that. Oh, that._

_ Desire pools on his tongue, and the famine rips at him, and he is there, only inches away, teeth bared, only one more heartbeat away from slicing into that tender throat._

_ Davy's throat._

_ Davy._

_ His __**friend**__._

Gasping, Michael jerked to wakefulness, fingers fisted in his hair, staring across the way at Micky, who was entrenched deeply in a dream of his own. The drummer's face is scrunched painfully, and he is curled up on his side more tightly than usual, as though protecting himself unconsciously.

As he tried to breathe deeply, the pounding of his heart eases, and another beat grew more and more apparent. Slower, in spite of whatever nightmare plagued him, and pushing a savory rush of blood through his gangly body, Micky's heart called to Michael. His flesh, tender and undoubtedly tasty in spite of years of hard living, beckoned Michael closer.

Rolling onto his back, Michael tried to stop breathing, but the steady thumpathump of Micky's heart rattled in his skull, and a craving, one he recognized, drew it's nails down Michael's sanity with a maddening screech.

Kicking off his bedding, Michael tumbled from bed and, not giving his body a chance to betray him, ran from the room. He slammed into the bathroom, heedless of the slumbering occupants of the house, and lurched over the sink, stomach heaving against nothing.

Turning on the taps, Michael splashed cold water on his face, letting the swirl of it circling the drain mesmerize him.

It was only the dream, he told himself firmly. The stupid dream, the memory, whatever. He wasn't like that anymore. Lucy and Peter had healed him. He was fine. He just needed to forget all about that and move on.

He nodded, satisfied with his train of thought, no matter how hollowly it clattered. No matter that it felt too much like misdirection, the prattle and clatter of a magician as it tried to make you believe the lovely assistant had really vanished. No matter that the empty pit in his gut was still there, weaker, but ever present.

It was only a dream.

He looked at himself once more in the mirror before turning away and heading back to bed.

And if he'd noticed that his eyes looked a bit more orange than usual, like someone had dipped a paintbrush with red watercolor on it into a golden-brown-tinted cup of water, he would have blamed it on the light and the sleeplessness.

But he didn't, and it didn't much matter anyway, because he would have been wrong.

:::

A/N - Well, I was very wrong - it's nowhere near 2am. And why do I get the feeling this isn't going to end well? Oh, right, because I read the outline


	2. Fire In His Belly

Chapter One: Fire In His Belly

Mike stared at Peter, face ashen, regret pounding in his veins, and Peter stared back, so hurt that it was hurting Mike. The silence following his horrible words was stifling.

Micky set his bowl in the sink with a clatter, eyes never leaving Mike, effectively breaking the oppressive silence. "What the hell, man?" he hissed, his voice wavering between anger and disbelief, and Mike could understand that. He didn't quite believe it, himself.

"Pete," he begged, stepping towards the shaman and reaching out to him. Peter took an automatic step backwards, and it was like a punch in the gut. "No, hey, Peter, I'm…I'm s-"

"No." Peter shook his head. "No, it's okay."

But his voice quivered, and there were tears welling up, and Mike heart broke.

Goddamn, but Peter could do more damage with a few words of forgiveness than anyone crueler could do with a knife, and he never meant to do any of it. The worst part, thought, was that he meant the words. He really forgave Mike, had forgiven Mike before the nasty words had even finished ringing in their ears. And Mike had to accept it, because anything else would just wound Peter further.

But how could Mike do it? Just accept Peter's forgiveness? No. No, he couldn't do it. God, he's never raised his voice like that. Not to Peter, not in anger. Fear, concern, sure, but this?

No. None of them had ever spoken to Peter like that, not that Mike knew. Not Davy, surely, even with his hair-trigger temper. Nor had Micky, famed for speaking without thinking. Not to Peter. Not ever.

So Mike shook his head, trying and failing to pretend that Peter's pleading look didn't cut deep. "It's not okay, Peter. I just…that wasn't okay. I'm so sorry." Backing towards the stairs, he glanced around at his friends, his family. Their own expressions made his chest ache - Micky's confusion, Davy's accusation, Lucy's suspicion. More than any of that, though, they looked afraid. He could understand that, too.

"It won't happen again," he muttered, stumbling up the stairs and slamming into his room.

He more than understood. He was scared, too. He was out-of-control, ice-in-the-veins, dear-God-please-save-me terrified. It wasn't any of the outside things; the shamans or fiends or whatever else might be clawing at their doors. No, he was more concerned with what was inside their home.

What was inside of him.

It had been so good for a while. Things had very nearly returned to normal. Micky's night terrors that left behind only a sense of burning alive had nearly disappeared. Davy had stopped following each of them from room to room, living practically in their back pockets. Peter had started digging himself out of his forlorn shell, had started smiling the way he'd used to. And Mike…Mike had felt normal. Human.

Not long ago, the only remains of the events that had turned their lives on their ears had been a bill for window repairs, two incongruous ash trees, and a slightly-raised pair of crescent scars on Mike's shoulder.

It hadn't lasted. He should have known it wouldn't have. Good things never lasted, not for him.

It had been only the nightmares at first - strange, yet familiar, flashes of memory and sense that echoed into the waking world. It faded slower and slower every time, and left more and more behind. Feelings, more than anything, and all the worst ones. The fear, the anger, the desire to hurt those that hurt him.

The more it went on, the more it felt like a wounded, wild animal had burrowed into his brain, its flesh-rending instinct to lash out bleeding into his body and seeping into his marrow. It grew, day by day, concentrating and staining him to the core.

Everything was spinning out of control, but only on the inside. His mind was a horrific cyclone of tearing, gnawing pain, and at the eye of it was an even more frightening emptiness - a vacuum of hunger, corkscrewing through him. It didn't eat at his stomach so much as it did his heart, carving out a twisted, empty furrow in his chest.

He knew what it was. He'd tried to deny it, tried to reason it away, but he knew. He'd seen it in sharp eyes, hellfire red and glazed with crazed starvation. He'd felt it catch hold in his sleep. He'd recognized it in the way it writhed inside, squirming towards the sweet scent of flesh.

The ghoul was taking hold, the way it had when he'd woken up in the Pad those long months ago, when it…when _he_ had nearly torn out Davy's throat. Davy, his best friend, who looked to him for guidance and protection. What would he do when Michael was the thing he needed protection from?

He could tell Lucy knew. He could see it in her sad, old eyes, in the tense set of her shoulders. He could smell it, a pointed fear. A fear of something she recognized. The thing inside him liked that even better than the general tension in his friends. It would add such a lovely tang to her warm, soft flesh…

The bile rose in Mike's throat, and he squeezed himself in between his bed and his bedside table, drawing his knees up to his chest and clasping his hands over his head, hiding his face against his knees. He pushed and struggled, but the thoughts kept rising, bubbling up like a simmering stew of bestial, primal urges.

He knew what it would feel like when her skin was shredded under his nails, the way his teeth would have to saw over her trachea to sever it. He could practically hear the sloppy gurgle as she choked to death on her own blood as his fingers cracked her ribs and squelched into her lungs. She would taste so good, and the hunger would abate for just a moment, but a beautiful moment.

"No no no no no," he pleaded, fingernails scrabbling at his scalp, seeming sharper than normal. "Please, God, no. Please, please, no."

But God didn't answer, didn't abate his ravenous desire, and Mike supposed he never expected Him to.

God didn't answer the prayers of monsters, after all.

Grasping at the blankets with shaking hands and sweaty palms, Michael clambered up slowly, feeling as though he was moving through molasses. He drew the covers up over himself, drawing the blankets up over his head in a childish attempt to shut out the world. As it had when he was a child, it made him feel protected, and the twisting, anxious madness abated until he could wrestle down entirely. The insidious fingers of hunger withered, but didn't disappear. They never did anymore.

He wouldn't relax; not when Micky came in to crawl into bed, not when his eyelids grew too heavy to hold open, not even when the light of dawn began to ooze through the window. He played his own words over and over in his mind, hour after hour, carving them into his mind as permanently as if he had carved them into his own skin.

_ "God damn it, Peter, you just can't help being a fuck-up to save your damned life, can you?!"_

Each syllable burned like acid behind his eyes, but he etched it deeply and irreversibly. Peter might be willing to forgive. Hell, even the others would let it slide, as they always did. But not Mike. Oh, no. Mike wouldn't forgive this. There was no forgiveness for the evil things that hurt his family, especially when that evil thing was Michael himself.

When the sun was high enough to burn the shadows out of the kitchen, Mike trudged downstairs, quietly going about the process of setting up a pot of coffee.

"Michael," Lucy spoke up softly from her seat on the couch, "what's goin' on?"

Irritation slammed into his gut suddenly, and the coffeepot slipped from his fingers and into the sink, water sloshing over the edge and onto his bare feet. He paused, watching it drip rhythmically, focusing on that rather than the suddenly deafening thunder of her heart. Slowly, with deliberately gentle motions, Mike picked up the dishtowel and started mopping up the puddle.

"You're tense. Agitated. Aggressive. It's not like you, Mike," she continued, in spite of the nervousness he could smell on her. Little Lucy had always done a good job of keeping herself together, keeping calm, but she couldn't fool him. He could read her frantic pulse as easily as he could a children's book.

He tossed to towel back onto the counter and refilled the pot. "Not like me before, Lucy. You know as well as I do what this is."

He didn't want it to be. He didn't want to believe it. Part of him hoped it was a dream, or his imagination. Part of him prayed that Lucy would correct him, tell him he was wrong, tell him it was something else, something laughable and easily-fixed.

He'd stopped paying attention to that part of him when he was six, though.

Lucy leaned against the counter, far too close for his comfort, and it frayed at his nerves. The stream of water he poured into the coffeemaker rippled and splattered as his hand shook, and he fought to steady it.

"Michael. You need to get a handle on this."

"You think I don't know that?" he snapped, head whipping around sharply. He narrowed his eyes at her as her heart rate ratcheted up. "Maybe you should be the one gettin' a handle, Luce. Gettin' a little nervous, there?"

"I'm not the problem here, Michael."

He turned away with no little effort, trying to concentrate on the coffeemaker.

"Michael."

"What do you want me to say, Lucy?" he hissed, bending over to rest his elbows on the counter and his head in his hands. "I know. It's not goin' away, it's gettin' harder to control…I don't know what to do. I…I'm afraid….I'm afraid I might…"

"Hurt someone?"

"No." He looked up at her mournfully. "I'm afraid I might kill someone."

Her deliberately placid look melted into such a heartbreakingly sorrowful one that he had to look away again.

"Oh, Michael. I'm so sorry. I'm so very sorry. This should never have happened."

"Sorry don't change shit, Luce, you know that."

She paused, crossing her arms as she watched him busy himself with taking out pans and bowls and odds and ends to prepare breakfast. He worked methodically, letting the routine of it soothe him. It always did, but lately it took longer to work, and was less effective every time.

"It's gettin' worse, Lucy. Harder to control. It used to go away after a while, once I calmed down. Now it's just…it's diggin' in more and more, and I don't know what to do about it."

"We'll work it out, Mike. I promise. We'll find somethin'."

Mike snorted, pulling out two handfuls of eggs and setting them as delicately as possible on the counter. "Right. I'm sure you know so many people who would come within fifty feet of a monster-infected freak like me."

"Stop that," she barked, reaching out for his shoulder. Before she could touch him, he slammed his hands down, crushing several of the eggs, sending their innards spraying across the counter. He growled as Lucy backtracked, eyes going wide for a moment.

It was long enough.

"You scared o' me, Lucy?" Snarling like a rabid dog, he advanced on her until she was pressed against the staircase. "I know you are, so don't even bother denyin' it. You stink of fear, you know that? Reek of it. All that fakin', pretendin' you ain't a gibberin' mess inside, it's pitiful. I can see right through you," he said, reaching out and grasping the bars on either side of her head, face twisting at the odd, sparkling discomfort that spread across his palms. "I can see how scared you really are. I know how hopeless I am. So don't you dare act like there's hope for me, Lucy, because I can see what's inside me better than anyone. I know what kind of monster I'm becomin', and so do you."

"No," she whispered, gamely maintaining her brave face. "There's a way to stop this, Michael, I know it. You can fight it. You're still human, I pro-"

"Don't you make me no promises like that, Lucy Lynn Campbell," Mike said, voice rumbling in his chest like a gathering storm. "Don't you fuckin' dare. You know what's inside me, inside my head. You know there's a monster inside me, Lucy. Don't you dare tell me I'm human."

"Mike? Everything okay?"

Slowly, Mike straightened up, stringy globs of egg dripping stretching between his palms and the staircase railings, and he tilted his head to look at Davy.

The Englishman was nervous, but not afraid, like Lucy. He didn't see it yet, Michael guessed, didn't see the beast that craved nothing so much as it did the scent of fear and the taste of flesh. Instead, Davy was watching him carefully, full of concern and caring. His dark eyes searched Mike's face, then Lucy's, before returning to his best friend.

"A bit of a breakfast mishap, I take it?" Nodding to the mess of egg on the counter, Davy crossed his arms, feet planted solidly as though awaiting a tidal wave.

Mike blinked, lowering his head to stare at the slick strands of egg slipping from his fingertips. Once again, he let the motion mesmerize him, reigning in the aggression until he could think straight.

"Yeah. Yeah, I…" Looking up at Lucy, he met her gaze shamefully. "I got a little irritated. Sorry."

"Been happening a lot lately," Davy remarked under his breath, wetting a cloth and making an effort to wipe up the gooey, shell-filled remains. Either he didn't notice the way both Lucy and Mike tensed, or he didn't care, because he simply smiled at the Texans. "It's okay. We all get a little edgy from time to time."

Something aching uncoiled in Mike's belly, and he relaxed enough to manage a smile. "Yeah. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Davy murmured, eyes serious in spite of his easy grin and loose posture. "We all have problems, Mike. It's not a crime to have issues. Just…just let us help, okay? Even if you don't think we can, or you don't want to worry or burden us, we just want the chance to try. Promise?"

Every inch of him knew that there was no help for him. He was losing his mind to a monster. There was no magical tonic, no spiritual cleansing, no therapy for that. Still, Davy's eyes arrested him - warm and earnest and stubborn as the day was long - and he nodded.

"I promise."

Breakfast was a tense affair in spite of that chat, and everything tasted bland and unappealing. Peter was edgy, shooting pained glances at Mike, and Micky was trying a little too hard to break the tension. Mike couldn't help but get more and more irritated, no matter how he tried to let it go. He knew both Davy and Lucy knew it, and he supposed part of Peter's problem was that he was picking up on it. Micky, ever attuned to his best friend's mood, subsequently tried even harder to lighten the mood.

Finally, with a loud crack, Mike picked up his plate and slammed it onto the table, shattering it. Everything went quiet.

Lucy closed her eyes slowly, shaking her head when Micky opened his mouth to make an undoubtedly unwelcome joke. Peter's fingers twitched, and Mike knew he was now truly frightened, not only because he could smell it, but also because he could smell the power crackling in his blonde friend's aura.

Davy set his fork down and turned to face the shuddering guitarist.

"Something wrong, Mike?"

The urge hit hard, the way it had months ago, just before he'd run for Albuquerque, and Lucy. His vision misted red, his lips curling back in an ugly snarl as his fingernails scratched at the tabletop.

It would be so easy. So very easy. He could just reach over and plunge his fingers into Davy's belly, rip out his innards and crush them in his hands the way he'd crushed those eggs. He could twist his little friend's neck until it snapped, rend the muscle from his bones and grind it between his teeth-

Shoving himself back from the table, he ran for the bathroom and slammed the door, locking it firmly.

He leaned against the wall next to the sink, running his hands over his face, frowning at the scratch of too-sharp nails. He glanced down at his hands, and the breath caught in his throat.

His nails had grown sharp, thick, and long, like claws, on the ends of fingers a bit too long to be normal. Feeling ill, he hunched forward, grasping at the sink and gagging.

It was like worms crawling under his skin at first, but it grew, roiling and wriggling disgustingly. He hacked, the eggs coming back up, thankfully as tasteless as they'd been going down. Everything ached suddenly, every joint, ever nerve ending. The horrible fingernails clicked against the porcelain of the sink as he shook. He ran the water, watching the squidgy contents of his stomach swirl down the drain. He focused on the water, on the whirl of it, but this time, it didn't help. He shivered and retched, every little sound seeming horribly loud.

A knock on the door startled him.

"Hey, Mike, you about done in there?" Davy called, tone deceptively calm. "You've been in there for an hour and a half!"

"I'll be out shortly," Mike replied, his voice echoing oddly.

After a long moment, Davy walked away.

Tensely, Mike listened, gripping the sink until his knuckles were ready to pop, sweat rolling down his forehead. He could hear Davy's heartbeat getting fainter and fainter, the scent of flesh dissipating, and he nearly relaxed.

Looking up into the mirror, Mike felt tears gathering in his red-tinged eyes, and he drew in a hissing breath between too-sharp teeth.

"Mike, are you sure you're okay," Peter tried, his voice accompanied by the sweet scent of meat, and Mike swallowed hard, trying not to breathe through his nose. It didn't help - he could taste it on his tongue, almost feel it, soft and sweet and sliding wetly down his throat…

"I'm fine," he growled, his voice sounding too deep, too strange, and Peter, too, walked away.

Mike looked back at himself, watching his face as it contorted, his pupils dilating to slim slits, ears slightly more pointed than normal. He shuddered, feeling the gnawing hunger eating its way through his belly, and he let himself slip to the floor. He sat there, resting the side of his face against the cabinet, and whined.

He'd been so stupid to think it was over, so very stupid, and he didn't think he'd be strong enough to save his friends this time. He was already quite sure he couldn't save himself.

That didn't leave him very many options.

Pressing his forehead to his knees, Michael hugged himself and cried.

A/N - Well, this piece of crap took long enough. Eurgh.


	3. Insanity Plea

Chapter Two: Insanity Plea

"It's the ghoul, isn't it?"

Michael squeezed his eyes shut, quietly letting his head drop back against the bathroom door as he listened to his friends and cousin talk about him. Sometime after one in the afternoon they'd stopped trying to beckon him out of his sanctuary, for which he was grateful. Every time they came close, the famine hit hard, leaving far too little of Michael behind to reign it back in. It was progressing, he admitted to himself, opening his eyes and watching the odd, writhing shadows undulate over the backs of his hands. Progressing far more quickly than he'd hoped it would.

Stupid. Stupid to hope. It was going to eat him alive from the inside out, and eat his family alive from the outside in. There was nothing he could do about that.

Someone must have confirmed Peter's question, because he continued with a waver in his voice. "I knew it. This is all my fault."

Michael shook his head, clenching his fists until his claw-like nails bit into his skin, drawing blood, but it was Davy who spoke up.

"That's absolute crap, Peter. You did everything you could to protect us. You nearly got your damned self killed trying to protect us."

"Didn't do much good," Peter muttered, and Michael shook his head again, breath coming hard and fast as pointless rage bubbled up in his throat, tasting of bile and more harsh words. "If Michael's being affected by the ghoul bite, I don't…I don't-"

"It's okay, Pete," Micky reassured him, voice muffled oddly. Probably hugging Peter, Michael guessed idly, relaxing fractionally. "We'll figure it out."

"I don't think there's anything we can do," Peter finished, sounding wretchedly helpless.

Michael's breath hitched, the sudden silence in the next room buzzing in his ears.

"Of course there is," Davy argued, stubborn as ever. "Just because you don't know it doesn't mean there isn't a way to help Mike."

"I'm afraid Peter's right," Lucy put in. "There has never been a recorded case of a survivor of a ghoul attack leadin' a normal life afterwards."

"But…then why did you let him…you never even mentioned this might be a problem," Micky hissed, sounding angrier than Mike could ever remember him sounding. "If you thought he was gonna start turning into a ghoul or something, maybe you could have given us a heads up!"

"I'm sorry," the healer said quietly. "I thought…well, none of the recorded cases had access to healin' soon enough after the attack. Most of them had no healin' at all. It was stupid and prideful, I guess, but I thought that maybe, since Peter had gotten to him in time…and he'd come to me straight after…well, I thought maybe we had a chance. And it had seemed to work - I didn't feel anythin' discordant about his aura. He seemed fine."

"Well, he sure as hell isn't fine," Davy growled. "And there's no way we're leaving him like this. We have to help him, guys. It's _Mike_."

"Well, I'm gonna try," Lucy promised. "I'll see if I can't draw it out of his aura again. It'll hardly fix it, but it'll probably give us enough time to figure out somethin' more permanent."

"Right. Okay." Huffing a sigh, Micky clapped his hands together. "What do you need us to do?"

"Leave."

Nails scrabbling at the tile, Michael scrambled up off the floor, staring at the door incredulously.

"Not bloody likely," Davy declared.

"I'm not gettin' into an argument about this, Davy. "This is delicate and dangerous-"

"Exactly why we're not leaving."

"-and I will need Michael as calm as possible, which means not makin' him feel cornered or ganged up on."

There was a moment of contemplative silence, before Peter spoke up.

"No."

"Peter, of all people, you should-"

"No. I made this mess, Lucy," the shaman pointed out, "and I can't let you risk yourself trying to fix it alone."

There was a sharp, frustrated growl, and Mike could just see Lucy pinching the bridge of her nose. "Guys…"

"Look, I'm usually all for keeping my limbs intact and un-gnawed," Micky reasoned, "but this is Mike. He needs help. And if nothing else, Peter can probably tie him down with vines or something until you finish your heal-y thingy."

Another sigh, and Michael knew Lucy was going to give in. They were going to try to help him, which meant they were going to have to get close to him. They were putting themselves in danger.

He was putting them in danger.

Swallowing hard, Michael turned his back to the door again, helpless tears pricking at his eyes once more. He rubbed them away determinedly, and when he'd dropped his hands to the side, he spied the window.

It had never been opened - it had, in fact, been nailed shut by a previous tenant for some reason or other. Sometimes, when he'd get out of the shower, he'd see funny messages or childish pictures outlined against the steam on the windowpane - Micky's handwriting, usually.

His eyes, sharper than they'd ever been, could see streaks and smudges on it again, even though he'd just cleaned it yesterday - 'don't forget to scrub behind your ears'. Michael's heart clenched.

Moving to the window, he pressed his too-long fingers to the words. Then he drew his fist back and swung.

:::

The shattering sound had everyone running for the bathroom.

"Mike? Mike!" Davy pounded on the door. "Mike, open up! What happened? Are you okay?"

There was no answer.

Shunting Davy to the side, Peter pressed his hands to the door. "Give me a second."

Micky rolled his eyes. "Oh, for the love of-…move, Peter." As he maneuvered around his best friend, Micky pulled two thin pieces of metal from his back pocket and knelt down to eye the lock. "No use destroying our bathroom door. Besides, whatever you do might hurt Mike."

Peter flinched a bit, but didn't argue as Micky worked at the lock. Davy, watching critically over the drummer's shoulder, snorted. "I guess that's how you've been getting into my trunk."

"In my defense," Micky argued as the lock clicked, "I wouldn't have to break into it if you'd just leave it unlocked."

The door was swung open with no trouble, and four faces peered into the room with concern.

"Mike," Peter called softly. "Mike?"

But the room was empty. The only trace of their friend was the scattering of glass on the windowsill and smears of blood on the frame.

Michael was gone.

"Again?" Micky sighed.

:::

By the time Michael thought to check the time, it was getting into evening. The city was bustling with people. Young people winding their way into hangouts, old people struggling under grocery bags, people in between hurrying home from work. People everywhere.

It was a Friday, Michael remembered as he trudged about in a daze. The Monkees were supposed to be playing at a club in a few hours. Ophelia Green, it was called. New place. Nice place. 'Good energy', Peter had said when they'd gone to audition. He'd said that about a lot of places, back before they'd found out he was a shaman, but they took it a bit more literally now.

The club owner paid well, better than the last steady gig they had. It wouldn't be good for them to miss their debut.

But Michael wandered on, tunneling deeper into his own mind, hardly aware of the folks who had to stumble out of his way as he passed. His legs ached oddly - groaning, dull throbs of pain that would spike suddenly, unbalancing him. It got worse with every step, but he couldn't stop, not until he was far, far away from home, from the friends who would so foolishly risk themselves for him.

A young woman bumped his shoulder, and Michael whirled on her with a snarl.

"Sorry, man, I…oh, my God."

Her eyes were wide, terrified, and very blue. She backed away slowly, then turned and ran. Michael tensed. A chase. A chase, and then a feast. Yes.

It rang so suddenly and so loudly that it vibrated behind his eyes, clattering his knife-like teeth together, and Michael gasped, jerking backwards and falling against a tall, worn wooden door. It rang out again, deeply, cutting through the chatter and hubbub of the crowd, cleaving through the overpowering urge to hunt and catch and tear and consume until Michael was able to struggle out, gasping and shaking and hugging himself as if afraid he would shake apart.

He blinked up at the door he was propped against, then down at the steps he hadn't been aware of climbing. He knew these steps, passed this place often on the way to the supermarket without so much as a glance. It was a church, an old Catholic church that had been around since Malibu's beginnings. When they went for groceries together, Peter would look at it, watching it pass by for as long as he could with a serene look on his face.

Michael had asked, long before they'd found out about his abilities, what he was looking at.

"It's a good place, Mike," Peter had said softly, smiling. "No matter what you believe, or what the people who go there believe, the person who laid the stones was good. It was built out of goodness, and it's still full of goodness. It's nice to see it. It makes me feel like, no matter how bad things get, it'll all turn out okay."

Michael ran his hand down the door to the handle. As soon as he grasped it, he gasped, thorns of burning pain stabbing at his palm.

Even Peter's place of goodness was rejecting him.

But as he turned to go, tugging his hat more firmly down around his ears and stuffing his abnormal hands into his pockets, the door swung open.

"Are you okay, young man?"

His instinct was to turn, but he had no way of knowing how hideous he might still look, so he only leaned slightly, peering at the speaker out of the corner of his eye. The priest beckoned at him, smiling kindly.

"Come in. Please."

Michael paused. "I'm…not Catholic," he hedged, voice low and harsh.

The priest smiled wider. "That's okay. You don't have to be Catholic to need a haven."

Slowly, keeping his face down, Michael turned and entered the church. Maybe Peter had been right, because there was a sense of quiet and calm within the walls that made it a bit easier to breathe. Pain still rippled up his legs, though, sharper with every step as he followed the priest through the vestibule and down to the first row of pews.

"You may sit here for as long as you need to," he said, pressing his hand briefly to Michael's shoulder.

"Thank you."

When he was alone, Michael sat, hands folded in his lap, taking in the worship space. It was small, modest for the most part. In the middle of the raised platform, there was an altar, covered in white cloth, with a white pillar candle at each end. It was flanked by wrought iron candleholders. Behind it was a crucifix that reached the ceiling, and behind that, a stained glass window.

Michael's gaze wasn't drawn to the face of the figure on the cross, though. Instead, he found himself staring at a statue that stood beside a small door to the side of the platform. Stone, like the walls, she was about his height, her eyes blank, her expression one of maternal love.

It had been a long time since he'd been in a house of worship. He remembered the last time - he'd been thirteen, listening to the pastor delivery the eulogy at his father's memorial service. There had been a casket draped in a flag, guns being fired, and his mother stood at his side, trying so hard to be strong for him. He'd held her hand tightly, and she'd told him that his father was with the angels, that God had taken him into Heaven. He'd been comforted. He'd truly believed her words.

"I believed," Michael murmured, staring up at the serene countenance of the Virgin. "Even when I stopped goin' to church, I never stopped believin', not once. How…"

He ran his hands through his hair, cringing at the too-sharp nails that scratched at his scalp. Shivering, he let his arms drop, hands resting palm-up on his knees.

"How could you let this happen?" he gasped, throat tight with bitter betrayal. He stood on shaky legs, the ache in his joints seeming like distant echoes as selfish fury filled him. "How could you….how could you let this happen? I…I was good. I was…I was a good person. I wasn't much, but I was that. I always…I…how could you?" Face twisting as hot tears welled up and rolled down his cheeks, burning like acid, Michael turned his gaze to the small stained-glass window above the altar.

It was beautiful - simple, like the church itself - and depicted the resurrection of Christ. The poor and the wretched were prostrate at His feet, and His face bore an expression of such love and benevolence. A surge of hatred filled Michael, so disgusting, so sudden, that it almost made him vomit.

Almost automatically, Michael's clawed fingers closed around the hymnal closest to him, and he drew his arm back and hurled it at the window. The book tumbled end over end, past the crucifix, striking the window at Christ's feet, but it did not break it.

Howling like a wounded animal, Michael staggered up to the altar, sweeping his arms over it, sending the trappings upon it flying. He hurled the tall, heavy candleholders, the twisted iron prickling against his palms, feeding his fury. Whirling back around he flung himself at the statue of Mary and beat at her stone chest. Blood smeared over the hard folds of her dress as his skin split, and with a choked sob, Michael slid down to kneel at her feet, fingers scrabbling at her figure, nails scraping at her pleadingly as he fell, his legs no longer able to hold him up.

"Why?" he wailed. "I know I wasn't ever much. I know I wasn't ever important. I just…why? _Why?!_ Why me?! How could you let this happen to me?!" Grasping at her cold feet, Michael gazed up at her lovely face, chin quivering as he drew in deep, hitched breaths. "Aren't I good? Aren't I worth savin'? I don't deserve this! I don't deserve any of this! Please! Please…"

He curled in on himself, pressing his forehead to her feet. "Please…help me," he breathed wretchedly.

His only answer was silence.

He didn't know how long he knelt there, hands stinging, bloody, and bruised, agonizing pain shooting down his legs. It wasn't until the pain receded that he lifted his head, eyes meeting the blank gaze of the statue, face stained with tears. He reached up, touching the streaks of blood that marred her dress.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, speaking clumsily past his freakish teeth. "I'm sorry."

Taking a deep breath, Michael squared his shoulders and made to stand. Something was wrong, though. Very wrong. Frowning, he grasped at the statue's folded hands and pulled himself up. As he did, his shoes slipped oddly over his feet, feet that didn't feel right at all.

Looking down, Michael froze.

His legs had warped, bending at odd angles, in places they shouldn't. And his feet…

Slipping out of his boots, Michael choked a bit.

They were hooves. Dark gray, like the hardened fingernails, and rounded like a donkey's…like a ghoul's…

"God, no…please…"

"Son? Are you okay?"

Jerking his head up, Michael's eyes latched onto those of the priest who had let him in. He heard the man's heartbeat, suddenly thundering like mad, and smelled the sour scent of fear that would make his flesh taste so good.

"You…you're…" Shaking, the priest held up a rosary. "You can't…be in here."

"No, no, I'm not…I'm not…" Michael trailed off. _I'm not a demon_, he wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out.

"Leave this place," the priest demanded, quivering head to toe but standing firm.

Michael shook his head. "You don't understand, I-"

"_Leave!_"

Shuddering, Michael tried to wrestle his fear and fury down. "Listen, man, you…you can't-"

"The power of Christ compels you!"

"Don't-"

"Be gone, unclean spirit!"

Snarling, Michael lunged, shoving the priest down to the floor. He bared his teeth, leaning down to close them around the man's throat. Just a quick, clean slice and he could feed, could finally sate the hunger, even if only for a moment…

"Killing me won't save you. The torment of the damned is eternal."

Michael sat back slowly, feeling as though he was moving through molasses. His claws were dug into the priest's shoulders, blood welling up from the punctures.

Just a taste…just one taste.

"No." Wrenching himself away, Michael stumbled up and tripped back until there were several feet between them, his hooves clattering jarringly as he moved. "No."

Blinking, the priest struggled up, as well, pressing a hand to his shoulder. "You…"

"_No_." Shoving past the priest, knocking him bodily into a pew, Michael pelted from the church, slamming out the door and running blindly away.

He'd nearly killed someone. For all the anger, all the disgusting desires, he'd never actually attacked someone like that. He'd made the man bleed. He'd intended to kill him. He'd intended to _eat_ him.

He was a danger to everyone around him. He had to get away, away from everyone, before he was too far gone…before he forgot himself entirely.

He could feel it, chilled and ravenous, sinking deeper into his mind with every passing moment. The line that separated them was too thin, and was blurring even as he kept trying to trace over it, trying to maintain it. He was losing to it, had always been losing to it. There was no way for him to win. All that was left was making sure he couldn't hurt anyone.

He had to get far, far away.

But somehow, in his terror and anger, Michael found himself back at the Pad. The others were gone - looking for him, no doubt. He would pack up his things, take off before they got back, run and run until he was where no innocent person would stumble across him.

He didn't move, though. He stared up at the Pad, fresh tears already tracing across his cheeks. The Pad, his home, the first place he'd really felt like somebody - the first place he'd really felt like himself. He'd worked so hard for so long to make it out here. They all had. And now that things were finally turning around for them, he had to go and screw everything up.

The others would surely return soon, but Michael still couldn't make himself go inside. Instead, he fell to his knees and crawled between the side of the house and the line of young shrubs Peter had undoubtedly been responsible for. He curled up, folding his strange new legs as tight as he could and leaning against the wall.

Just a little longer, he told himself as he stared out at the shoreline. Just a little longer, and then I'll go.

But as the dim light of twilight faded, he heard soft footsteps coming up along the house. Squeezing himself into as tight a ball and he could manage, Michael hugged himself, claws digging into his biceps. If he was lucky, it would be Davy or Micky - they had no way of sensing him, and he'd just have to stay quiet until they went inside before he made his getaway.

He wasn't lucky, though, because Peter peered into the space expectantly, no doubt having felt Michael out from wherever he'd been.

"I set up a barrier," Peter explained as he crawled closer, heedless of Michael's sudden shuddering. "I felt it as soon as you came home and ran straight back. We've been really worried about you, Mike, you've been gone all aftern-" Peter stopped, sitting back on his heels as his eyes adjusted to the shadows, and he saw Michael's new look for the first time.

"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, Michael. I'm so sorry."

"Don't," Michael snapped, pressing his face against his…knees, he supposed, hoping it would muffle Peter's scent. Lord, he was so hungry, so very hungry. "Don't, Pete, I can't…I can't-"

"It's okay, Michael." Shifting so that he wasn't looming over his half-ghoul friend, Peter gazed at him, face twisted in empathic agony. "We'll find a way to fix this."

"I don't think there is any fixing this," Michael replied.

"Don't say that." Peter moved, looking as though he was about to take Michael's hand, but thought better of it when Michael flinched away.

"I wanted to kill a man, Peter."

The blonde was silent for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he inched closer. "Did you?"

"What?"

"Kill the man."

"No!" Looking up at Peter, Michael growled. "I didn't, but I wanted to. I was so close, Peter. So close to just tearin' him open and eatin' him alive. I'm so hungry, Peter," he finished in a whine.

"I know." Reaching out again, slowly, Peter carded his fingers through Michael's hair. "I know. It's gonna be okay, Mike. I'm gonna make sure of it."

Fatigue rippled through him, so softly he hardly noticed it at first. It continued, wave after wave, rolling through him in time to Peter's petting, until he couldn't keep his eyes open. "Peter…Peter please…you have to…let me go," he whispered.

"Not ever," Peter promised stubbornly. "You're my brother, Michael, and I'm going to take care of you."

Michael wanted to argue, to fight it, but he was just so tired, and everything was soft and fuzzy and slipping away…

:::

A/N - Welp, here it is, in all its glory! Hardly worth the wait, I'm sure, but it is what it is so…meh. I just hope I haven't deathly offended anyone. ^_^;;;


End file.
